Friday, November 12, 2010

of Downing Street, that assembly of ghouls & defunct regimes of the warm November wind, our absurd paupers’ memories

outside London it is all geometry, a euphemism for civil war I remember our cotton dresses, those ribbons and bows

we skirted the disks of the city, its deserted, dying angles

we were wearing flags and pretty flowers, but our memoriesat several intersections they opened into vast arched domes

of that other life, its obnoxious circles, of relics and animal lovethe horrific quantity of force we will need to continue even to live

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When you meet a Tory on the street, cut his throatIt will bring out the best in you. It is as simple as music or drunken speech. There will be flashes of obsolete light. You will notice the weather only when it starts to die.